


Fantastic Witches and Where To Shag Them

by alephthirteen



Series: Do a Proper Job of It [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Harry and Aubrey, Hermione Makes Experimental Witch-Only Sex Toys, Hogwarts Starting Year Varies, Less Evil, Line Marraiges, More Dark Magic, Pseudo-Voldemort Plotline, The Elder Generation of Pureblood Witches Bonded Through Sex Parties, Which Ginny Beta-Tests, consensual poly, two bodies one mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28264584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen
Summary: Every house has a ritual when a daughter comes of age.  The Dumbledores take the girl to the wilds of the Sahara.  She may only return when she can show three down feathers from a fireharpy in her mouth.  One poor dear took three years to get one of the fire-clad, winged women on her back long enough to lick some feathers loose.  The Potters--ever the softies--take their daughters flying on heirloom brooms.  The Malfoys--not a creative sort--take the girl to Knockturn alley to have a spin with a whore.  Probably hoping to get the habit of munching another witches' broomstraw out of her system.  The Rosiers--nasty bunch--set the child loose in a vampire nest they keep in the Catacombs of Paris, not to return until she has bite marks on her thighs and three bloodsucking sluts collared and leashed.The Blacks take their daughter to see The Black Lady in the cavern far underneath the manor...and now it's Cissy's turn.-----"In here, Harry!" Hermione calls.Rounding the bend of the hallway, he sees Hermione astride Aubrey's face while Ginny uses Hermione's strap-on at the other end.  Her nimble fingers pluck and tickle Ginny's swollen breasts."Had to fuck your better half."
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Do a Proper Job of It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070399
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. The Deepest Black

**Author's Note:**

> This work is going to have spicy bits. It won't have any rape or incest. That's a bright line. 
> 
> Expect:
> 
> Arranged marriage contracts  
> Bisexual male characters (gotta be fair!)  
> Consensual sex between legal adults of different generations  
> Consensual sex between same-age students  
> Dom/Sub (mild spicy)  
> House rivalries settled naked  
> Inevitable affairs of people bored to death of their arranged spouse  
> Likeable Ron (that charming simpleton!)  
> Pureblooded witches of a certain age more than willing to take a stern lecture on muggle-born sensitivity from Hermione  
> Use of magic restraints  
> Use of jinxed dildos and plugs  
> Witches lusting for Harry to bothersome degree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Andromeda and Narcissa Black have their fortunes read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of magic will work the same as it does in Potterverse proper but there are places I will allow her laws of magic to be flexed by extremely powerful wizards, though at a cost proportional to the gain.
> 
> Some schools of magic she doesn't have (kid's book, after all) like sexual and reproductive magic and energy transfer, will also enter in.

**"It's easy enough to trick one of the Black boys. Try to trick a Black girl and you'll soon find it was wiser to slit your own throat. Those icy bitches seem to know what I'll eat for breakfast each day the next full moon."  
**

Wilfred Peverell, during the middle of the Black-Peverell blood feud in the 1550s. He was killed three days later in a highly unlikely blacksmith's accident that saw a spike of red hot metal go through the window and miss his head only to set his bedside lamp on fire. His wife claimed he'd moved the lamp just that morning.

* * *

**  
Narcissa Black - 1968 - Age 13**  
  
  
"Cissy!" Andromeda hollers. "Hurry up!"

Rolling her eyes, she sets her hairbrush down. No matter how many times she brushes the potion in, she can't get more than fat stripes of black hair. The maidens of the house of black simply _do not_ come out blonde. Narcissa doesn't look like a Black.

Her cousin Sirius looks more like a Black than she does. Even more like a Black _daughter,_ what with with his ringlets of jet black hair, his brown eyes and his lean shape. 

All Narcissa has is have her mother's queenly posture and cheekbones and her father's crisp jawline. Narcissa looks like a Rosier with piles of golden hair and skin so pale men keep handing her umbrellas in Diagon Alley on general principle. Her mother's golden locks often drew whispers of 'veela' behind her, much to her annoyance. Narcissa supposes it was about her beauty, not an insult about half-breed status. 

More than a few of the Rosier girls reveled in the rumor. More than a few of the Rosier boys _acted on it_ while sowing their wild oats. The resulting pack of blonde, succulent, golden-feathered little girls formed a family of choice that soon overtook the Rosiers in wealth.

Since she's turned thirteen, Cissy's received more than one perfumed parchment from the 'Dove' branch of the family. The Cuckoo triplets keep inviting her to pluck parties. She's not sure she wouldn't drink till she burst if she found herself in a room full of veela with dripping cunts. They're fourth cousins, so she uses that excuse.

Abandoning any hope of looking like a daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, she stands, smooths her simple white nightdress and opens her bedroom door. She gets an armful of sister and a faceful of auburn curls the instant she does. 

"I'm scared, Cissy."

"Why? You're the prettiest of us, sweet sister."

"Bellatrix got taken to the Black Lady at eleven. Eleven! You're just thirteen. Next year you'll be at Hogwarts and when the teachers allow it, you'll be getting it often as you like. I'm _seventeen._ She's never called on me before. What if there's something wrong? What if my magic or my body isn't ready?"

"Be glad you're going with me, then Drommy. Because I'm scared too."

Andromeda sniffs.

"Thanks."

She gathers herself up--a full head past Narcissa and likely two heads taller than tiny, nasty little Bella--and so graceful and elegant that she looks like a woman grown, far more so than their hex-slinging, leg-spreading oldest sister. The Black Lady waited, Narcissa thinks, because Andromeda's not going to get told about some future love, years past Hogwarts. She's not going to get teased about all the wrong boys she'll drop her knickers and flip up her school skirt for.

Narcissa would bet papa's last galleon that Drommy will be told to take the family library, teach herself magic and walk out. She'll be over the moon--probably round as the moon too--in a year or two.

\-----

Druella Black (nee Rosier) is the union of two of the richest--and darkest--families in Europe. She looks the part. The last time Cissy saw her smile was when their house elf relayed the awful fate one of her enemies met by 'accident' whilst hunting thunderbirds on of the back of a broom in far-off Arizona.

She was seven at the time.

Their mother opens the trap door in the dungeons floor and draws her wand.

" _Purificato maxima!_ "

A blast of air--like hurricane with lemon juice for rain--issues from the tip and pours into moss-lined passage. Inside is a long spiral staircase over a yawning chasm. Probably bottomless as their mother's heart. 

"Andromeda first," she snaps, pushing her onto the first step. "Keep close, girls. I need not remind you how grim our finances are."

"Heavens forbid I die and you can't collect the dowry," Andromeda retorts. "That last part would be tragic."

Druella's wand-shaft strikes out and splits Andromeda's lower lip.

"Don't you dare speak to me that way!" she roars.

"Hit me again _mother_ , and you might knock me off this deathtrap. Cause your own nightmare."

Impressed by her sister's most likely suicidal courage--dowries are not returned if the wife has an accident in childbirth--Cissy follows. The staircase winds down so far that she's loathing her mother's orders they not eat before. She didn't get breakfast and the house elves have no doubt already put lunch in front of Bellatrix and whatever two-bit murderer she rode last night. The Black Lady merely said that Bella would be with the most wicked of the wicked. The lack of the word 'marriage' stood out to Cissy but not, apparently, to their mother.

"We're here," their mother finally announces.

Here turns out to be a small building in the shape of a quidditch bludger and held down by even more chains. Chains so fat they could restrain a flock of dragons, taut as violin stings and going every witch way to the cavern's distant walls.

Perhaps the Black Lady is so terrifying that seeing her drove Bella mad. Well, madder at least. 

* * *

**Andromeda Black - 1968 - Age 17**

Inside the Lady's Chamber, it's dark. She's tried to cast _lumos_ three times--wandlessly, her mother hasn't let her have one in months--to no avail. She can feel the spell working. Feel the magic entering her body with her breath, passing through her veins and then out into the world.

No light comes.

"Come closer, sunset child."

The voice speaking in the abyss is velvety-smooth, smoky, matronly. 

"Yes, yes. Sunset child, indeed. Not midnight as your sister Bella, nor moonrise as Narcissa."

"You know about Narcissa?"

"I know all children of the Blacks, child. Those who were, those who are, and those who will be born ages hence."

"What is your name?"

"Black, child. What else?"

Rather than an answer, she feels the red-hot spike of involuntary llegimancy going through her skull.

"Good, girl. Good, relax...there's a good girl."

She comes to and sees a pool of light. In it a man stands. Shabby clothes. Warm smile, open arms.

"Who is he?"

"His name will be Tonks, child. To marry him will cost you a great deal. Which you will gladly pay for your daughter Nymphadora..."

The man's skin ripples and in his place is a lean, lanky woman with bright purple hair, large brown eyes and a full mouth.

_She's a metamorphamagus and a llegimancer? And so old...our line founder, somehow? She'd have to be eight centuries or more. She must be called the Black Lady because she was the first Lady of House Black._

Andromeda's not sure if she should be impressed with her ancestors for locking her up or terrified of what will come when she eventually escapes.

"...will be a kind, brave young woman. Full of life and energy and capable of giving her heart to a good man because she alone can see the man and beast for the same loyal creature. She will wear a thousand faces and with each face, touch a life for the better."

Andromeda's hands are shaking.

"My husband...I didn't see a wand. Is he..."

"Magic is not what he'll bring you, child. You'll be happy, all the same. I'd be surprised if Nymphadora doesn't end up with a sibling not even a year younger than she is! That much, I cannot see. To be a seer is an imperfect business."

_Seer, too? Explains mother keeping her in this warded prison._

"But in your mind, I saw that you like Pegasi for a girl and Triangulus for a boy. Galaxies in the night sky, like their mother Andromeda."

With a crack, she finds herself outside the chamber, staring at her sneering mother and holding a fat bar of chocolate of all things.

"She's ready for you, Cissy."

* * *

**Narcissa Black - 1968 - Age 13**  
  
  
"Good luck," Andromeda tells her. 

She follows it up with a _llegimens_ spell, giving her some of her memories of who's inside. Closer to what than who, if she has all those gifts.

"Morgana's gash," Narcissa whispers. "Really?"

Drommy nods.

"Get in," their mother snaps.

"There's no door, mother."

"Knock three times on the stone."

She does, and appears inside with a pop.

"Well now, sunset child."

"Sunset child?"

"Your path is lighter than Bellatrix and darker than Andromeda's. Not the bright beauty of sunset, nor the horrible depth of midnight. Moonrise. When light and dark dance with each other."

"You will bear two sons and two daughters, Narcissa of Black."

"So I will be productive for my husband, good."

"You will have a husband and two great loves."

"Not the same person?"

"A school friend, fiery and loyal. A husband, wealthy and icy to whom you will bear a son."

"And the last?"

The strangers voice takes on an eerie, metallic tone.

"Woman is he, man is she. Pure blood, half blood, muggle blood. Eyes of green, hair of brown, scar of foulest black! Eyes of blue, hair like dragon fire, skin like sweetened cream! Eyes of brown, hair like a forest, skin of sturdy gold. These are your loves! These are who you shall grow old with!"

The invisible stranger cackles and with a pop, Narcissa finds herself tumbling down the upstairs stairwell, having been transported nearly to the other end of the manor's grounds.


	2. Lush Pelts and Hedged Bets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Apolline Delacour gives Narcissa a sendoff and young love can blind the cleverest woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Narcissa Black Malfoy as a character. We see so little of her in books/movies. The first we know of her is a mother who will do anything to protect her baby boy. By the seventh book, she is willing to lie to a man who is a skilled mind-reader because her son's enemy spared his life. 
> 
> Harry's plan broke the horcrux but once resurrected he was wandless, weak and surrounded by merciless killers. It was Narcissa's bluff that won the war.
> 
> So I like to imagine her as a woman who's always wanted to be--and cherished being--a mom but had to bring up her son in the most wicked of environments. What would a free Narcissa do? Who would she chose to spend time with? Remarry? Have more children? 
> 
> If McGonagall is ninety and looks sixties-ish (in rare cases, human women in their sixties have children). Dumbledore is 116 when he dies and until the curse, universally acknowledged as a powerful warrior. 
> 
> Narcissa is 42 at the end (1955 up to 1997). She's in her prime. She's probably the equivalent of a muggle woman in her mid-twenties to early thirties, physically. What next? How does she pull Draco closer to her? How does she save him from his father's influence?
> 
> One arc of this story is me trying to answer that by weaving into her life some additional, but not entirely implausible people she can reach out to. A former Black in good standing with a mind cunning enough to defeat Voldemort is not some simpering drone. She's scared. Monsters hold dinner parties in her house and the man next to her might be one.
> 
> The Haubrey-verse is a Harry/Aubrey with Ginny & Hermione story. It's also a Narcissa story, Apolline Delacour story, Tonks story, an Amelia Bones story, a Minerva McGonagall story, and all those other iconic Potterverse women who deserve their own arcs.

**Narcissa Black (betrothed to Lucius Malfoy) - 1980 - Age 25**

Her second to last night at 12 Grimmauld Place is a fitful, frightening one. When she finally abandons the folly of a good night's sleep, she rises to take one last stroll. What use is a robe? She is alone in this place. If the thin, ailing Malfoy family tree is any indication, a breeze may be the most potent thing between her legs for the rest of her life.

Her mother is gone. Her father's wishes for her are enforced from beyond the grave. Who cares that the Malfoy's only claim to fame is a lucrative and suspicious trade in dark artifacts? The paint is peeling. The coffers empty. 

Poor Kreacher's already battered mind is now suffering not from her ghastly mother, but from trying to un-peel paint and un-ruin walls. A task for a human-sized craftsman not an aging house-elf. A craftsman they cannot afford.

Bellatrix has gone from lustful and violent to a frothing bitch in heat, a wretch that a rabid dog would find ill-behaved. 

Andromeda ripped out of the family. Her niece, sweet Nymphadora, nothing but some magical idea in her head. She's told the child is bright eyed, curious, and quick to befriend. That she changes her hair to her playmate's favorite color to make them smile.

The family was overdue for a metamorphmagus. It was unprecedented bad luck for four daughters in a row to be born without the trait. 

Black men are Predators. Warriors. Architects of impenetrable wards, body warping charms, spells and jinxes and unparalleled artifacts. Gifted at killing, building fortresses, and cowing weaker and easily panicked dark wizards. Her brothers and her cousins walk the dark places, heads high, wands out, ancient swords and whips on their belts. Frightening the wickedest of men. 

Black women are shapeless specters. Metamorphmagi, llegimancers, in rare cases seers. Her sisters and her niece walk those same places, hidden, invisible. Wearing another's face, or knowing how to hint at their conversation partner's deepest, most desperate wish with a glance and a whispered spell. As wives of men who think themselves gods they are no more important than a mote of ash, and no easier spotted by those they plot against than a prickling chill on the back of the spine, quickly replaced by a cursed dagger.

What else could her family be except dark wizards? The light has little use for wards that can flay an intruder's mind and body, blades that can make a son suffer his fathers pain, whips that can make a wife moan lashing across a whore's back or scream when her child is struck. What use have honest heroes for lovely and reckless spies who can scarcely resist the thrill of deception?

Marry her to that fool Zabini boy and she would be Wizarding Britain's secret queen by thirty no matter how deadly and cunning the Black Widow is.

Her father left instructions that should Lucius Malfoy's business continue apace, she was to marry him. Gringotts was her matchmaker. With Sirius banished, a goblin will walk her down the aisle.

Narcissa has twenty-four hours of freedom, a sheet of accursed parchment, a stiletto bloodthirsty as a dragon already secreted into her wedding gown's corset and a quill that can write only with the blood of a Black for ink.

How is she to make herself great with such paltry tools?

She pricks her finger with the quill and conjures an inkpot of poisoned smoke to hold the drops. Simple is best. She is making a contract with magic's evil half.

> **I shall die old, in my girlhood home.**
> 
> **I shall not die unloved.**
> 
> **I shall not let House Black fall to ruin.**
> 
> **I shall not be bred like a mare. I shall mother like a witch.**
> 
> **I shall put my strength, my cunning, and my last drop of blood between my children and danger.**
> 
> **I shall not suffer unto my children the life I suffered.**
> 
> **This I swear. May Dark and Torture take my shade when I perish if I have lied.**
> 
> **Narcissa, a Natural and Lawful Daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Black**

She polishes her wand, asks Kreacher to make her favorite meal and wake her when it is warm. She lies back on her bed, folds her hands over her breasts like a corpse in the casket, and she prays.

\-----

"Mistress Narcissa?" Kreacher croaks.

He's tickling her hand with a feather duster. A clean one reserved specifically for this. The Knifenose clan learned a nasty lesson when her grandmother ripped the head off an elf who shook her awake when she passed out drunk. She vomited the fatal bellyful of firewhiskey into a bath-tub while her rescuer's blood splashed the carpet.

Every elf since has used this duster.

"I'm awake, Kreacher. What?" she groans.

"Mistress Narcissa has a visitor at the wards."

"Who? The Malfoys are not to be here until midnight."

"Not Malfoys, Mistress. Silver woman. Her hairs are golden, like fires. Two men. No clothes. Leashes. But the mens are too tall for a house-elf, mistress."

Narcissa flops her hand over her face. Probably that fucking veela.

"Please make some bread, Kreacher. Put out two bottles of wine, the smoked pork and some hard cheese. Let them in and then retire for the day. I won't be needing you."

"Kreacher lives to serve."

She doesn't want to put on a proper robe and dress. She'll be getting more than her fill of ladylike clothing all too soon. She is the last Lady of the line and a visitor is at the door. The plumpness of her lashes and the precision of her braids reflect on her house. She sets out her potions, enchants the second mirror to hang mid-air behind her head, and gets to work. 

She's just finished the first hairpin when there's a knock on the inside edge of her bedroom's open door.

_Merlin's ass. I did tell Kreacher to let them in._

"Cissy?" 

The voice is like silver bells and laughter. High, musical and oh-so-pleasing.

"Yes, Polly?"

"Are you decent?"

"Partially."

"Fuck that!" Apolline snaps. "I don't want you decent, little raven. After all, I didn't bring my best roosters for my best girl to watch her lace her corset, did I?"

She should get finished. She should ask what a veela princess means by 'rooster' and why Apolline is here, rather than staring in wonderment at her five-year-old little girl. Fleur is a singularly cute child. She should ask if Apolline's husband knows she's here. He probably does. Hard to miss Apolline. She had to retake her semester at Beauxbatons twice and she suspects she only passed the third time because Apolline had graduated and Narcissa got more sleep when they weren't munching each other's broomstraw nightly until they passed out, slick-faced and grinning.

Pulling out the lonely hairpin and shaking the aborted updo out, Narcissa follows the rock-rock-rock-rock of Apolline's hips down the stairway. 

In the kitchen are two _delicious_ looking young men, wearing leather trousers, smiles, and silver chains around their necks like collars. Their tall frames are lean and the firm muscles of their arms stand in high relief. Flat chests with a dusting of plush-looking gold hair trail into ladders of muscle that end in a sinful 'v' of flat skin that terminates somewhere she cannot see.

"While I do appreciate the view, _Polly..._ "

Narcissa gets a handful of creamy, tender ass and squeezes. The blonde's head falls back with a groan.

"Not me," she gasps. "Them."

"What of them?"

Apolline scoffs.

"I've had the displeasure of fucking a Malfoy."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say his banker came to his door midway through and I let him take it. Wilthelm's instrument was well-crafted. The player...utterly talentless."

"Perhaps Lucius is better. He's a handsome enough man."

"Golden hair doesn't matter."

"I think otherwise, Polly."

She twirls a coil of the veela's shimmering hair and tugs gently. A moan bubbles up Apolline's throat. Her hand slides into the gap in Narcissa's robe, dancing through the dark curls on her mound.

"Mother of the Winds," Apolline murmurs. "This is so soft. So fucking thick. Like a mink's pelt. Never let someone tell you to shave this..."

Narcissa snickers.

"If you're so fond of it...I could be convinced to let you nuzzle for a while."

"Fuck them, not me."

"And why should I fuck them?"

Narcissa gathers the fabric over her old flame's nipple and makes the silk dance with a roll of the fingers.

"They're Cardiff flock," Apolline gasps. "Nigel." She gestures to the shorter, thicker-boned man with blue eyes. "Robert," she adds, gesturing to the taller, narrower-shouldered specimen with brown eyes.

"Cardiff flock?"

"They're..." Apolline huffs. "Small. Mostly Whitelance husbands marrying halves and quarters. House Flamefeather blood in most of the wives."

"Camelot boys, eh? The stallion's bloodline?"

"You know the saying," Apolline chuckles. "Lock two Whitelance boys in a barn with two virgins and by spring, you'll have a village. Quarter-veela have small families, unless they have the right wizard. These two have sired twenty-one daughters between them for my sisters who lost mates before they could carry. The flocks trade is wool and fathering."

"Blood matters, Apolline. Here, at least."

"I've already had the Directory's offices breached and every single instrument and piece of parchment hexed. When they check the child's pedigree, whatever you want them to read, that's what the paper will show. Whisper it and make it so. I wanted to save you from having to fuck a Malfoy more than once, Cissy. You're ripe. Don't lie to me. My veela can smell it. Makes my mouth water. I've ridden these two more than enough to know they can have you tender, smiling and dripping like a spilled milk bucket by morning. Ride them however you like, drop from exhaustion and wake well rested and with child, hmm?"

"Tempting. But I remain unconvinced. Anyone can be pale. Any man can fuck anything that moves."

"G-g-entlemen?" Apolline gulps.

Both men stand and unfasten their trousers. Their balls spill out with a tempting bounce. Fat as small apples. Their cocks are pale, barely darker than the rest of their skin. Veiny. Long and arrow-straight. Shaped to compliments their lean, hard frames. The shafts are dragged down by the fat, raspberry-pink heads.

_White lances. Hence the surname, I suppose._

They have stamina enough to not be at mast even in the presence of a half-veela who's currently moaning into Narcissa's hand as the other plucks mercilessly at a pebbled nipple. Apolline's allure lashes across Narcissa's mind, making her cunt drool and her breath come in desperate, short pants.

"You have your bargain, Polly. You'll clean me before the ceremony, though."

"Gladly, my love. Gladly."

\-----

She's a bit ginger during her first dance as a married woman. Lucius is the perfect gentlemen in public and in private he is still respectful, though hardly _close_ to his new bride.

Lucius certainly wasn't as bad as Wilthelm. Energetic enough. Quite interested in her reactions. Whether he didn't want to hurt her out of actual care for her pleasure or because his mind is a businessman's and he cares for investments remains to be seen. His family must have taken a hard view on 'gentlemanliness' when they had the chance to claim a wife from a family above their station. Virginity is typically the witches problem, she had the good luck to have torn her hymen on a broomstick in a quidditch match with her sisters. His eyes blew wide when he saw her body and the first three times he rutted her with such zeal it was like he were twelve and discovering cunts exist for the first time.

The bed is warm. He doesn't snore. His long hand trails along her arm.

Narcissa hums, dragging her fingers through her tender, overused folds to gather a bit of seed that sought to escape. She tests it on the tip of her tongue. Not pleasant, but she's had far more objectionable poured down her throat in sixth year back at Hogwarts. Fortunate that Lucius didn't have much experience or he might've noticed the prior occupant's contributions to her cunt. Thick as buttermilk and white as cream. She suspects there's enough spunk in her womb to simply make a child like a butter sculpture.

She'll know who Lucius really is in two moons, she supposes. When she stops bleeding and starts swelling, will Lucius still come to her bed?

Never fair to compare a first timer to a mind-melting seductress and her hand-picked helpers, after all.

\-----

He doesn't. He dotes on her rapidly-growing body in every way a man with money can, but in none of the ways a man might if the woman he just bred was _desirable_ with a bellyful of his child. Charmingly, Lucius lets her wriggle between his legs when he's writing or looking at ledgers. Before she truly swelled, his review of the accounts was sacred. Off-limits, just as her tea and wine with the ladies of Greengrasses, Parkinsons, Notts, Celwyns and Zabini were.

She need only get within reach, clear her throat and pull her hair off her neck. With a quick smile and a roll of the eyes, he'll dig his fingers artlessly but sweetly into the knots in her shoulders.

It's the most romantic thing they share.

She's decided Lucius simply isn't a lustful creature in the first place. Long fingers, though.

\-----

There are four, the midwife tells her. Two boys and two girls. Explains why she's needed to use so many bloody anti-swelling charms on her feet.

She calls in the mediwitch, who mumbles something about 'two waters' and 'oddest thing she's seen' and Narcissa's blood freezes. Did those faerie-derived lunatics put some child in her her that's toxic? That's consumed hers and Lucius? Can a witch even carry like that? 

"Go find my husband!" she barks at the mediwitch. "Keep him calm. We'll call you if needed."

This leaves her with only the midwife.

A girl first. Hair so pale and shimmering she might be Apolline's daughter. Meek as a dove and nearly silent. One sharp, heart-shredding wail and then only sighs as her sticky cheek settles onto Narcissa's breast. 

A boy after, with blue eyes but not Lucius's. Not quite. If she hadn't stared for so many hours into Nigel's while his cock plundered her and her world spun down to heat and pleasure, she might have missed it. Lucius has pale blue eyes flecked with gray. This boy's eyes are deep. A blue dark as the cold ocean and the flecks are purple. Faerie dust blue, it's called. Eyes like his secret father.

The next boy is smaller. Feels too delicate in her hands. His face is narrower and eyes are paler. The flecks remain, unmistakable proof that more than human blood sings in his veins but they're so tiny a magnifying glass would be needed for any but his mother to note them.

He does look like Lucius' boy.

"One left, Ladyship. You'll meet your daughter soon..."

When she hears the child's wail, Narcissa slumps back. The midwife scoops her daughter up and lifts her up, wiping her face before placing her in Narcissa's crowded arms.

" _Accio_ Blackpetal," she whispers, glancing at the dagger she was gifted in the Black Lady's chamber. She set it on the highest shelf to get the angle just right.

"She's lovely, your la-UGH!"

A svelte, waved-toothed knife of midnight-dark metal spikes through the midwife's neck at the base of the skull, severing the spine. She bats it away with a shield charm, sending the blade skittering on the floor.

Summoning the last of her strength, she catches the child from the corpse's nerveless fingers.

If the Black Widow wanted her niece back alive, Vivienne Zabini shouldn't have played a part in Regulus' death. It would be unthinkable not to take advantage of time alone with the girl who spiked the whiskey that left him slow and unready when the assassins came. This mewling whelp was sent here as a midwife though it was practically common knowledge her family had House Black blood on her hands.

To be left alone and wandless with the woman who her family owed a life? Stupid.

Killing this bitch is a service to the future of pureblood ladies. Improve the average quality.

"Pimsy..." she whispers.

The house-elf pops into view at the foot of the bed. She's wearing the Delacour family's colors in a knit sweater from neck-to-shin. Curious, how she wears clothes yet still comes when called.

"Mistress Apolline says Pimsy helps Mistress Narcissa. Dobby is sleeping. He drank many butterbeers with me."

"Dispose of that."

With three snaps of the fingers, the body is gone, and the floor looks virgin and unstained once more. The knife floats back into her vanity's drawer.

"Take the girls. Take this one. Keep them secret. Keep them safe."

Pimsy is nimbler than any house-elf she's ever met. Her hands are steady and her steps measured and without the nervous clumsiness of Kreacher or Dobby. Dobby is young enough to be Kreachers' grandson and seems almost as prone to stumbling as Kreacher. Elvish trait, she had assumed.

Pimsy lifts the children into her arms like she's cradling a soap bubble. After swaddling them all, she apparates out with one, returns and repeats the process. Each time she presses the edge of an iron coin to the infant's foot. Narcissa hears the telltale sizzle of faerie flesh in contact with cold iron.

Where she takes them, Narcissa does not know and may never know, unless the families taking them will let Apolline divulge it.

After five minutes, the murder and the goodbyes are dealt with.

She presses a kiss of the forehead of her son.

"Draco, my love." 

She's a mother four times over and she can only hold this one. Loneliness stabs through her. Her cries bring the mediwitch running.

Lucius's eyes well up at the sight of their son. He falls to his knees beside her and she turns to kiss him. He approves of the midwife's absence with a nasty smile and a kiss to her cheek.

He knew well as she what the Zabinis have been up to.

\-----

Narcissa rejects three nannies and four wet-nurses. When someone wants to take Draco from her for more than a few heartbeats, some animal part of her rears up in challenge. _Not this one,_ it snarls. _I already gave up the others._ After slapping three such helpers in an unbecoming fashion, Lucius delicately suggests that perhaps she's not the sort of mother to let someone help her with those things.

So she lives a peasant mother's life in a massive mansion Lucius had commissioned to her every wish.

From when she wakes to pick him up to when she falls asleep with him on her chest, she is with him. He's on her hip, in her lap, cradled her arms with his mouth fixed firmly to her breast. Eating with one hand while Draco nurses. Setting him down only to relieve herself or bathe. Soaking her pregnancy-battered body with one eye open to the basket where Draco babbles and grabs at glittering charms she casts while she soaks.

Her body is torn and stretched and ruined. The simplest tasks ache now. Walking. Getting out of a chair. Bending over to roll a stocking on. Taking a piss. They all hurt. Her breasts leak. Her back burns with the memory of nine months extra weight.

She cannot remember happiness like this.

Even her irritatingly calm husband seems charmed by her possessiveness. She wonders if this will be what finally binds them. Will seeing her bliss caring for Draco convince him to have more? To take a role in his son's life?

On a frigid fall night, Lucius doubles over. Frothing at the lips. Obvious agony. She passes Draco to Dobby, who's eyes sparkle at the privilege.

"Lucius, what is it?"

"Potion," he spits out. "Belt. Yellow ones."

She tears his silk robes open. He wears a carefully hidden belt with dozens of small vials on it. Vials he didn't want others to know he had. Three of them are yellow and two a middling orange that might be mistaken for yellow.

"Which?" she demands, holding up one of each.

"These," he grunts, tapping the paler ones.

She puts his head in her lap and tilts it so the potion can flow down his throat. The first vial comes back up immediately, wasted completely. He keeps the second and third down. His breath is still has nasty rattle but at least it's deep and filling his lungs.

"Seems I owe Severus a thank you for concocting that," he finally wheezes.

_The potions teacher at Hogwarts?_

"Stay," he pleads, grasping her hand.

"Always," she chokes. "Always, my love."

He fades in and out of lucidity, whispering of Dark Lords and marks and ruin and death. Pleading some unseen master to spare his life. Clutching his left arm, where a snake tattoo writhes and slithers like a parasite under the skin before finally going still.

Terror fills her brightly lit home until well into the next day. By noon Lucius has recovered enough to stand. She lunges into a kiss, not caring that his mouth tastes of vomit and potion. His arms snake around her waist and keep her close.

\-----

Over a delicate breakfast of soggy toast and seltzer water, a bedraggled Lucius--the poor man still looks like a half-warmed corpse--tells her of his close involvement with the dark wizard that's been terrorizing the country. Describes the truth of his basement meetings with his 'schoolyard chums' for which he sent her and Draco to the summer cottage. Frets and frowns over the times he kept of the bloodiest of the work and when he participated. He feels he should have refrained. Stood his ground. Reminded the Dark Lord that his hands were there to be filled with gold, not stained with blood.

He alternates between telling her he had no choice but to fund Voldemort or die and telling her that it was the businessman's choice. The ascendant regime would be dark as the abyss. Artifacts, weapons and instruments illegal for centuries would be needed in every respectable home. No other family in Britain had the schematics and the contacts who could forge them. This boom would swell Malfoy coffers a hundred fold. Better to be in the inner circle, Lucius had decided.

As the sun sinks over the tall hedges in front, Lucius kisses her forehead for a long, sad moment. He pleads for his son, rocks Draco in his arms and asks her to take him go upstairs. Wait in her chambers. The aurors are coming, he tells her. Be polite when they search her most private possessions. 

He's guilty and he knows it. He must focus on playing his part.

The Daily Prophet for November 1st, 1981 goes straight from doorstep to fireplace in the Malfoy household.

She's never heard of House Potter but this 'Boy Who Lived' nearly cost her everything. This orphan's little trick cheating death nearly killed her husband.

Nearly left her son fatherless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that it makes sense for someone with dark magic business interest to support Voldemort terrified me by the time I finished the chapter and added it.
> 
> FUCK capitalism.

**Author's Note:**

> ##  Feeling posh? [Try these!  
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